All About Passion

Chapter 13

“Well, my dear! Married life clearly agrees with you.”

Francesca beamed. On tiptoe, she kissed Charles’s cheek, then turned to greet Ester. “I’m so glad you could come. It hasn’t been long, I know, but I’ve missed you.”

“And we’ve missed you, dear.” Ester brushed cheeks, then gave way to Franni.

Francesca searched Franni’s pale blue eyes; her cousin smiled blithely, stepped forward, and kissed her. Then she looked around. “It’s a very big house, isn’t it? I didn’t see much of it, last time.”

They were on the front porch. Charles’s traveling coach was being unloaded in the forecourt.

“I’ll take you on a tour, if you like.” Francesca looked at Ester and Charles, extending the invitation to them all.

“Why not?” Charles turned from shaking hands with Gyles. “I’d enjoy a guided tour about the ancestral home.”

“Let’s go upstairs and get you settled, then it’ll be time for lunch. After that, I’ll show you the Castle.”

Francesca started to gather Ester and Franni, but Franni slipped aside and went to stand before Gyles. She curtsied deeply. Gyles hesitated, then took her hand and raised her.

Franni looked into his face, and smiled. “Hello, Cousin Gyles.”

Gyles nodded. “Cousin Frances.” He released her and waved them all inside. Franni joined Francesca and Ester, eagerly looking around her as they traversed the huge hall.

“A big house,” Franni echoed, as they climbed the stairs.

“So we’ll only be here three nights.” Charles smiled at Francesca. It was evening, and they were all gathered in the family parlor, waiting for dinner to be announced. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

They were standing by the chaise. Before the hearth, Gyles was chatting to Ester, with Franni hanging on his every word.

“Nonsense.” Francesca squeezed Charles’s arm. “If the waters at Bath really do help Franni, then of course you must seize the chance and take her there again.” Charles had warned her in a last-minute letter that their visit would be curtailed; he’d just explained why. Bath’s sulphurous springs had given Franni more energy, but while Charles and Ester were keen to travel there again, they’d only been able to get Franni to agree by linking the trip to their visit to Lambourn.

“Indeed,” Francesca continued, “if you wish to take her there in the future, you must write and let me know. You’ll always be welcome here.” She smiled. “For however many nights.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Charles’s gaze rested on Franni. “I confess we’re more hopeful than previously. Both Ester and I were worried that your leaving and the excitement of the wedding might prove too much, might even precipitate some worsening of Franni’s condition. Instead, since recovering from the laudanum the day after the wedding, she seems only to have improved. It’s been a relief.”

Francesca nodded. She’d never understood the basis of Franni’s “condition,” but if Charles and Ester were relieved and hopeful, she could only be glad.

Irving entered and announced that dinner was served, much to Franni’s delight. Gyles very correctly offered both her and Ester an arm; Charles and Francesca followed.

They settled about the table in the family dining room. Francesca watched as Irving and the footmen served. Franni seemed delighted with everything. She held forth to Gyles on all she’d seen during their extended excursion around the Castle. Gyles had lunched with them, then retreated to his study; Franni had been unconcerned. Now, beneath her cousin’s artlessness, Francesca could detect no sign of unease, sorrow, or upset.

She must have misinterpreted, and Gyles was not Franni’s gentleman caller after all.

Charles, on her right, asked about a dish; Francesca replied. She chatted with her uncle and Ester, on her left. Franni sat beyond Charles, to Gyles’s left, an arrangement dictated by custom rather than Francesca’s wish. But it seemed her worry over her cousin’s possible sensibility had been misplaced. If that were so, she was grateful, yet…

She turned to Ester. “Does Franni still rise very early?”

Ester nodded. “You might want to warn your staff.”

Francesca made a mental note to mention the fact to Wallace.

“My dear, you must give me this recipe so I can take it home for Cook.”

“Of course.” Francesca wondered if Ferdinand could write in English.

“Good morning, Franni.”

At the end of the terrace, Franni whirled, mouth gaping, then she relaxed and smiled as Francesca joined her.

“It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” Francesca said.

“Yes.” Franni turned back to the view. “Although it’s such a large house, it’s quiet. I thought it would be noisy.”

“There’s only the staff and Gyles and me living here at present. Last time, there were all the wedding guests.” Francesca leaned against the balustrade, unsurprised when Franni said no more. She let the silence stretch, aware it would help given she wanted to nudge Franni’s mind onto a different tack.

Minutes later, she asked, “Franni, do you remember telling me about your gentleman-the gentleman who walked with you twice?”

Franni frowned, puzzled rather than defensive. “Did I?”

“Yes, at the inn. I wondered… do you know who he is?”

Her gaze on the horizon, Franni just smiled.

Accepting she wasn’t going to get that answer, Francesca tried her next question. “Has he visited you recently-since you last came here?”

Franni shook her head almost violently, but she was grinning; Francesca thought she giggled.

Steeling herself, she spoke slowly and evenly, as they all did when speaking to Franni. “Franni, I just want to make sure you haven’t confused your gentleman with Chillingworth. I-”

She broke off as Franni shook her head again, still grinning fit to burst. “No, no, no!” Franni swung to face Francesca; her eyes danced-she was almost laughing. “I have it all straight-yes, I do! My gentleman has a different name. He comes and walks with me, and listens to me and talks to me. And he’s not Chillingworth. No, no, no. Chillingworth’s an earl. He married you for your land.”

A somewhat malicious gleam shone in Franni’s blue eyes. “I’m not like you. The earl married you for your land. I don’t have the right sort of land, but my gentleman wants to marry me-I’m sure he does.”

She swung away and all but skipped along the terrace. “He’ll marry me-you’ll see. In the end.”

Francesca watched her go, then turned inside.

The gentleman wasn’t-had never been-Chillingworth. So who was he?

After breakfast, Franni went walking in the park, a footman trailing after her. After dealing with her household duties, Francesca joined Ester in the family parlor.

Ester looked up from her embroidery with a smile.

Francesca returned it. “I’m glad to have a moment alone with you, Aunt Ester.” Crossing to the chair beside the hearth, she sank into it. Ester watched her, brows rising.

“Are you having any problems-”

“No-it’s not me.” Francesca studied Ester’s blue eyes, like Franni’s yet so different. “This is difficult, because Franni told me in what might be classed as confidence, except that Franni doesn’t think in terms like that.”

“No, dear, she doesn’t. And if this is something to do with Franni, then yes, you should definitely tell me, confidence or not.”

There was such resolve in Ester’s voice that Francesca set aside all hesitation. “At the inn on our way to Lambourn…”

She recounted all Franni had told her, both at the inn and on the terrace that morning. “I’d worried that it was Chillingworth-he did walk with her twice. But he says he barely spoke a word to her, so it seemed odd she would have made anything of it, but…”

“But one never does know with Franni.” Ester nodded. “I can see why you thought that, especially with her reaction during the ceremony. But if she says it wasn’t him, then…”

“Precisely. It could be someone else-someone who’s been meeting her when she walks about at Rawlings Hall. It wouldn’t be hard to do without being seen. And she will inherit Uncle Charles’s property, after all.”

“Indeed.” Ester’s lips had firmed. “My dear, thank you for telling me-you’ve done exactly right. Leave the matter with me. I’ll speak with Charles, and we’ll deal with it.”

Francesca smiled, sincerely relieved. “Thank you. And I do hope it all turns out well.”

Ester made no reply. Frowning, she returned to her embroidery.

“Is this where you hide?”

Startled, Gyles turned. He’d been standing by the window in the library gallery, consulting a list of trials. In the doorway from the inner gallery, Francesca’s cousin stood, smiling smugly.

Her gaze had already left him to travel the shelves.

“You have a lot of books.”

He watched as she advanced, pirouetting to scan the room.

“There must be thousands and thousands.”

“Yes. There are.”

She stopped, facing him, head tilted, her gaze distant. After a moment, she said, “It’s very quiet up here.”

“Yes.” When she said nothing more, simply stood gazing vaguely at him, he asked, “Did you enjoy your walk?”

“Yes, but I liked seeing the Castle more. Francesca was naughty-she didn’t bring us here.”

“There are some places Francesca would consider private.”

He might as well have saved his breath; Gyles seriously doubted Frances took in anything she didn’t wish to hear.

She stood silently staring straight ahead. Wracking his memory, he recalled their conversations at Rawlings Hall. “We have many trees here.”

Her gaze focused on the window. She stepped closer to look. “Are they birches?”

“No. Most are oaks.”

“No birches?”

“None close. There are some farther into the park.”

“I’ll look when I go for my walks.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, she settled before the window as if intending to study the treetops. Gyles glanced at the journal in his hands.

“I’m afraid I must leave you-there’s work I need to do.” He’d intended doing it here, but his study suddenly seemed a wiser choice. There were always footmen in the hall; he made a mental note to tell Wallace he did not wish to be disturbed by their female guests.

Franni nodded, then turned abruptly to face him, meeting his eyes for the first time.

“Yes,” she said, “that might be a good idea.” She smiled; her pale eyes glowed. “It wouldn’t do for Francesca to come up and find us together.”

She continued to smile. Gyles studied her for a moment, then, his expression impassive, stepped back, bowed, and left her.

The clocks struck four as Francesca reached her bedroom door-too early to dress for dinner, but she could indulge in a long soak first. Opening the door, she stepped inside-

Someone was on her bed, sitting in the emerald-draped shadows.

Then the figure turned, and she recognized the pale hair, the pale face.

Exhaling, Francesca closed the door and crossed to the bed. “What are you doing here, Franni?”

She was sitting on the bed, more or less in the middle. She bounced. “I came in to see. The servants told me I couldn’t come up here, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.” Lifting the coverlet, Franni rubbed her cheek against it, then reached out and trailed her fingers down the silk curtains tied back about the posts. Then she frowned. “It’s so luxurious.”

“Chillingworth’s mama had it done for me.” Francesca sat on the bed. “Remember? I read her letters to you back at Rawlings Hall before we came for the wedding.”

Franni frowned harder, staring at the emerald coverlet, then her brows lowered even farther. She glanced at Francesca. “Does he sleep here with you? In this bed?”

Francesca hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“Why ‘of course’? Why does he?”

“Well…” She didn’t know how much Franni understood, but her pugnacious expression confirmed she wasn’t going to let the point slide. “It’s necessary for him to sleep with me to beget children.”

Franni blinked; the intense expression drained from her face, leaving it even more blank than usual. “Oh.”

Another something to mention to Ester. Francesca stood; with an apologetic smile, she gestured to the door. “I’m going to have a bath now, Franni, so you must go.”

Franni blinked again, then looked at the door, then she scrambled from the bed.

“Come,” Francesca said. “I’ll walk you back to the main wing.”

Francesca had arranged a small dinner party for that evening, seizing the opportunity to begin entertaining locally, entertaining Charles and Ester in the process.

They gathered in the drawing room to await their guests. Lord and Lady Gilmartin and their offspring arrived first, with Sir Henry and Lady Middlesham close behind. Francesca made the introductions, then left Charles and Ester with the Middleshams while she sat beside Lady Gilmartin and listened to a catalogue of Clarissa’s accomplishments. Gyles was chatting to Lord Gilmartin. Franni, meanwhile, had taken an instant interest in Clarissa and was talking at her, rather than with her, nonstop; Clarissa was looking a trifle dazed. Lancelot retired to stand before one window, striking a dramatic pose which singularly failed to attract any attention, everyone else being otherwise engaged.

Lady Elizabeth and Henni, accompanied by Horace in expansive mood, arrived before Francesca wilted under Lady Gilmartin’s onslaught; with the round of introductions, the groupings changed.

Sir Henry and Horace, old friends, drew Lord Gilmartin into their circle. Gyles left them to their discussion of coverts. He surveyed the room. His mother had engaged Charles and Ester while Henni had taken Francesca’s place beside Lady Gilmartin. Francesca was chatting with Lady Middlesham; as he watched, Clarrisa joined them. Lancelot was brooding by the window. That left…

Instinctive self-protection reared its head-

“Good evening, Cousin Gyles. Do you like my gown?”

Franni had circled the room to come up beside him. Gyles turned and briefly scanned her blue muslin gown. “Very nice.”

“Yes, it is. Of course, I’ll eventually have gowns like Francesca’s, all silks and satins-gowns your countess would wear.”

“Indeed.” Why was it that one minute in Franni’s company was enough to make him long to shake free of her and escape?

“I like this house-it’s big, but it’s comfortable, and your staff seem well trained.”

Gyles nodded distantly. She was neither cloying nor snide; she displayed none of the usual behaviors he deplored. His aversion was primitive, instinctive-not easy to explain.

“However, there is one little man I don’t like. He wears black, not livery-he wouldn’t let me go into your rooms.”

“Wallace.” Gyles stared at Franni. “No one goes into my rooms except those who have a right to be there.”

He spoke slowly, clearly-just like Francesca and Charles did when speaking to this strange young woman.

Her expression turned mutinous. “Is Francesca allowed in?”

“If she wishes, naturally. But I don’t think she’s been in.”

“Well, her room is beautiful, all in emerald silk and satin.” Franni shot him an unreadable look. “But you’d know that because you sleep in her bed.”

This was without question the strangest conversation he’d ever had with a young lady. “Yes.” He kept his tone calm and low. “Francesca’s my wife, so I sleep in her bed.” Looking up, about to search for help, he saw Irving enter the room. “Ah-I believe dinner is served.”

She looked and smiled. “Oh, good!” She turned to him, clearly expecting him to offer his arm.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must take my aunt in to dinner. Lancelot will lead you in.” Gyles beckoned the young man over. He came readily enough, clearly prepared, after his moments of isolation, to be passably agreeable.

Franni’s blanked face-so utterly without expression-remained in Gyles’s mind as, with Henni on his arm, he led the procession into the dining room. Inwardly, he heaped praises on his wife’s dark head. With the extra guests at table, Franni would be seated somewhere in the middle, well away from him.

As he handed Henni to the chair beside his, he murmured, “Charles’s daughter, Frances-what do you make of her?”

“Haven’t had much chance to form an opinion.” Henni glanced down the table to where Franni sat.

“When you do, let me know.”

Henni raised a brow at him.

Gyles shook his head and turned to greet Lady Middlesham on his other side.

The ritual of the port which he deliberately prolonged, not a difficult feat given the conversational abilities of Horace, Sir Henry, and even Lord Gilmartin in such an amiable setting, saved Gyles from having to deal with Francesca’s cousin in the drawing room. Even so, he wasn’t blind to the eager look in Franni’s eye when he led the gentlemen back in just ahead of the tea trolley. Nor to the fact that her look turned to one of confusion, then frustration as the disparate groups gathered to chat over the teacups.

When their guests rose to take their leave, he held to Francesca’s side, taking refuge in the dictates of formality. As they moved into the hall, Ester paused beside Francesca and whispered in her ear. Francesca nodded and smiled. Over the melee as Irving and the footmen brought coats and scarves, Gyles saw Ester draw Franni up the stairs.

He was conscious of relaxing his guard, smiling as he shook hands and exchanged farewells, eventually braving the chill outside with Francesca to wave the carriages off.

Charles was waiting when they reentered the hall. He took Francesca’s hands. “That was a most enjoyable evening. Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve entertained… well.” He stepped back, and they turned and started up the stairs. “I’d almost forgotten what it was like. How pleasant such an evening can be.”

Francesca’s smile was radiant. “There’s no reason you couldn’t entertain on a similar scale at Rawlings Hall. Franni seemed to enjoy it.”

Charles nodded. “Indeed. I’ll speak to Ester about it.” He halted at the top of the stairs. “Who knows? It might be a good thing all around.”

With a nod and a “good night,” he left them.

His hand at her back, Gyles steered Francesca to their private wing, listening to her happy chatter.

Francesca slipped from the warmth of Gyles’s arms as early as she could the next morning, but she wasn’t early enough to catch up with Franni before she left the house.

Tugging her shawl about her shoulders, Francesca stepped onto the terrace overlooking the Castle’s gardens. The air was crisp and chilly, but the sun shone and the birds sang; the day beckoned.

Strolling to the steps, she descended to the lawns. Searching for Franni, she walked to the rampart, then descended to the lower level and her favorite seat. She didn’t sit, but lingered long enough to drink in the view, drink in the fact that this land-his land-now felt like home to her.

Pondering that, she returned to the lawns and started walking a wide circle around the house. Wallace had said Franni had gone walking; she would be somewhere close.

Reaching the lawns before the stables, Francesca saw a figure in cambric striding along under the trees. Franni’s carriage was distinctive, stiff, slightly jerky. She had a thick shawl wrapped about her, making her appear peculiarly bulky above the waist. Francesca set out on an intersecting course. Franni saw her as she drew near.

“Are you enjoying the morning?” she called.

Franni smiled with her usual hint of secretiveness. “Yes. It’s been a lovely morning so far.”

“Have you been looking at the horses?”

Joining her, Francesca walked beside her.

“They’re big-bigger than Papa’s. Do you ride them?”

“No. Gyles gave me an Arab mare for a wedding gift. I ride her, now.”

“Did he?” Franni’s expression blanked, then she murmured, “Do you?” A slow smile suffused her face. “That’s good. I expect she gallops fast.”

“Yes, she does.” Francesca was inured to Franni’s fluctuating moods.

“So you ride every day?”

“Most days. Not necessarily every day.”

“Good. Good.” Nodding, Franni paced beside Francesca, her strides longer, rather mannish.

They walked on in silence until they reached the boundary where the park met the nearest fields. Francesca turned back.

Franni kept walking, veering toward the track that led between the fields.

Francesca halted. “Franni?” With an impatient shake of her head, Franni kept walking. “Franni, there’s nothing but fields that way.” When Franni didn’t slow, she added, “Breakfast will be served soon.”

Without looking back, Franni waved. “I want to walk up here a little way. I want to walk alone. I’ll come back soon.”

Nothing of any possible danger lay between the house and the escarpment. Francesca doubted Franni would go far up the steep track.

Turning, she started back to the house. Franni would be safe enough-and if she hadn’t returned within the hour, she’d send a groom after her. Meanwhile, thanks to her husband’s penchant for games at dawn, her stomach was growling. Breakfast sounded like a very good idea.

Over breakfast, Francesca, Charles, and Ester agreed to walk across the park to visit at the Dower House. Lady Elizabeth had issued the invitation last night.

Francesca looked up the table and raised a brow at Gyles. He shook his head. He needed to get on with his researching-what better time than with the house to himself?

Ester turned to Franni, who had recently joined them. “You’ll like to see the Dower House. Remember? We passed it when we drove through the gates.”

Franni’s expression was blank, as if she’d gone within in search of the memory. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t want to go. I’ll stay here.”

Charles leaned across and laid his hand over Franni’s. “You’ll enjoy the walk across the park under the trees.”

Franni shook her head. Her face took on a mulish cast Charles, Ester, and Francesca knew well. “No. I’ll stay here.”

Charles eased back, glancing at Ester and Francesca. Francesca smiled reassuringly. She looked at Franni. “That’s quite all right. You can stay here by all means, but if you should go walking, do remember to take a footman, just in case you get lost.”

Franni blinked at her, then nodded and went back to her kedgeree.

Ester sighed. Francesca turned to her. “How soon shall we leave?”

Charles drained his coffee cup. “Give me five minutes to change my coat.”

“You may take ten.” Ester pushed back her chair. “I must change into a walking dress, and Francesca will want to do the same.”

The three of them rose and left the breakfast parlor. Gyles strolled out with them. Reaching the top of the stairs, Francesca glanced back and saw Gyles hesitating in the hall, looking back at the breakfast parlor. Then he swung on his heel and walked to his study.

Ten minutes later, she, Charles, and Ester descended the front steps and strolled onto the forecourt.

“What a lovely arrangement of trees.” Ester studied the six pencil pines set in mirror image on either side of the drive. “And those troughs set the whole off wonderfully. Such lovely old things.”

Francesca’s inner smile was wider than the one on her lips. The troughs had been disinterred without mishap and had cleaned up remarkably well. “Autumn crocuses are so pretty massed like that.”

Behind them, the front door opened, then shut. They all looked around.

Gyles came down the steps, then strode up.

Francesca blinked. “I thought you were busy.”

Gyles smiled charmingly, knowing that while he would fool Charles and Ester, his wife was immune to his wiles. “It’s such a glorious day, and we won’t have many more. The chance of a walk was too good to pass up, and there’s one or two points I want to check with Horace, so duty can, in this instance, justifiably bow to inclination.”

Charles and Ester accepted his excuse readily. Francesca studied his eyes, but refrained from asking the questions he could see forming in hers. He offered his arm, and she took it. Charles offered his to Ester, and they headed off beneath the nearly bare branches.

They passed a comfortable morning with Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, then returned through the park in time for lunch. Franni didn’t join them.

“She’s sleeping,” Ester reported as she took her seat at the table.

“Just as well,” Charles returned. “She’s been walking here even more than she does at home. Although she enjoys it, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, so it’s all to the good if she rests.”

During the meal, Charles and Gyles discussed estate matters while Francesca caught up with the news from Rawlings Hall.

“I could do with a nap myself,” Ester confided to Francesca as they left the dining room. “I find it hard to sleep in a rocking coach, and it’ll be a long drive to Bath tomorrow.”

Francesca watched Ester climb the stairs. In the hall behind her, she heard Gyles giving instructions to Edwards, who had presented himself at Gyles’s request. Charles wished to view the succession houses. Francesca turned to see her uncle stride off with Edwards. She met her husband’s eye as he turned her way. She smiled, then turned toward the family parlor.

His hand closed about her arm and she halted. His grip eased; his fingers trailed down to tangle with hers. Surprised, she turned to face him.

His eyes held hers, then he said, “I wondered… if you haven’t anything pressing, would you help me with my research?”

She tried to keep her heart from leaping, or at least keep the fact from showing. “Your parliamentary research?”

“There’s a hundred references to check and cross-check. If you’re not busy…?”

She smiled, aware that his fingers had already closed firmly about hers. “I’m not busy. I’ll be happy to help.”

She spent the entire afternoon with him. He had a list of books with notes on what he needed from each one. They worked down the list, book by book, Gyles at his desk, reading and taking notes, while she searched for the next volume or, having found it, sat in a chair beside the desk and located the information he was after.

When he finished a book, she’d exchange it for the next, pointing out the relevant text. He’d accept the new book and start reading while she returned the previous volume to its shelf. In the first few exchanges, he read the entire section, but thereafter she noted he focused only on the passage she indicated. She inwardly smiled. Their researching went faster.

Charles looked in a few hours later. He saw what they were about and asked after Gyles’s interest. An amicable discussion ensued, which lasted until Ester, fresh from her nap, joined them, and it was time for afternoon tea.

Francesca rang and instructed Wallace to serve them in the library.

“Franni?” she asked, looking at Ester.

“She’s awake but dozy-you know how she gets. Happy as a lark, but she wants nothing more than to loll in her bed. Ginny’s with her, and knows to get her ready for dinner, so all’s well.”

Ginny was Franni’s old maid. She’d been Franni’s nurse and was devoted to her charge. Given Francesca had not been with them in the coach this time, Ginny had been brought to help with Franni, who was not easy over having maids she didn’t know attend her.

Francesca poured the tea. They all sat and sipped. The afternoon passed in easy contentment.

“Maria vergine! Impossibile!”

Gyles was in his room dressing for dinner; he heard the exclamations and the spate of frenzied Italian that followed them, delivered in a definitely masculine voice.

Wallace, holding Gyles’s cravat, stilled. “Ferdinand.” He laid aside the linen band. “I’ll remove him immediately.”

“No.” Gyles stayed Wallace with an upraised hand; although he couldn’t hear her words, he could hear Francesca speaking. “Stay here.”

Gyles crossed to the door leading to Francesca’s bedchamber. Opening it, he saw Millie standing in the middle of the room, staring at the open door leading to Francesca’s sitting room, through which another tirade of frantic Italian rolled forth.

Millie started as Gyles entered the room. He ignored her and crossed to the open door.

In the middle of her sitting room, Francesca stood wrapped in a dressing robe, arms folded, and waited for Ferdinand to run out of breath.

When he did, and paused, she spoke in a tone that effectively put an end to his hopes. “You’re supposedly an experienced chef. It’s beyond my comprehension that you are, so you say, unable to place a meal of any merit on the table before eight o’clock, despite having been warned this morning that dinner tonight will be at seven.”

He answered with another torrent of Italian; once she caught his gist, she silenced him with an upraised hand.

Her expression severe, she studied him, then nodded. “Very well, if you are unable to perform your duties, Cook will take charge. I’m sure she’ll manage to feed your master in appropriate fashion at seven o’clock.”

“No! You cannot-” Ferdinand choked back the words. “Bellisima, I beg…”

Francesca let him prattle a little more, then cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Enough! If you’re half the chef you believe yourself, you’ll have a magnificent meal ready to serve”-she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf-“in one hour.” Looking back at Ferdinand, she waved to the door. “Now go! And one thing. Do not again seek me out here. If you wish to speak with me, you will consult with Wallace, as is proper. I will not have you disrupting my husband’s household in any way-you are living in England and must abide by English ways. Now, go. Go!” With an intensely Italian gesture, she shooed him away.

Cast down, Ferdinand slunk off, closing the door behind him.

Francesca regarded the door, then nodded. Swinging around, she headed back to her bedchamber, loosening her robe as she went. She approached the doorway-only then did she realize Gyles was standing in it.

Rapidly replaying Ferdinand’s more impassioned passages, Francesca inwardly winced. No need to look too far for the reason behind her husband’s stony countenance. He understood Italian well enough to have translated the worst of Ferdinand’s histrionics.

Gyles’s gaze, hard as granite, had moved past her.

“I could send him back to London.” His gaze returned to her face. “If you wish…”

She tilted her head and considered. Considered the fact Ferdinand had unknowingly put his continued employment in jeopardy. Considered the revelation that her husband was an exceedingly jealous man. His gaze hadn’t even lowered despite the fact her robe had slithered open and she was wearing only a thin chemise beneath.

She shook her head. “No. If you’re to wield influence in political circles, then we’ll need to host dinners and for that, Ferdinand’s skills will be helpful. It’s best he gets used to us making unexpected demands now, here, rather than later in London.”

Gyles’s gaze remained on her face. His expression softened not at all, but she got the impression she’d said something right-enough to appease the possessiveness prowling behind his eyes. Then he inclined his head. “If you believe he’s capable of adapting, he may stay.”

She stepped forward. His gaze drifted lower, a warm caress over her breasts, stomach and bare legs.

He stepped back and let her walk past him. His gaze flicked to Millie. “One thing.” His voice was pitched so only she could hear. He met her gaze as she turned. “He is not again to come into this wing.”

“You heard all I said?”

He nodded.

“Then you know he will not.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then nodded curtly. He looked at Millie. “I’ll let you finish dressing.”

Gyles sat at the head of his dining table, Henni on his left, Ester on his right, and tried to keep his mind on their conversation. Tried to keep his gaze from straying to his wife, glorious in teal silk at the table’s other end. Tried to keep his mind from dwelling on the scene he’d witnessed in her sitting room.

He’d been unprepared for the possessiveness that had roared through him, powerful, forceful, and unsettling. Equally unprepared for her calmness, her cool head in dealing with the Italian, for the rock-solid, unwavering loyalty he’d sensed behind her words.

Was that what love meant? What having her love would mean-never having to worry, to wonder, to consider where her loyalties might lie?

He tried to wrench his mind away but couldn’t. He answered a question from Henni absentmindedly, unable to take his mental eyes from the prize.

She’d talked in terms of “we” and “us.” She’d done so instinctively, without calculation-that was how she truly thought, how she saw them, their lives.

The barbarian within wanted that, wanted to seize the prize and gloat, while the gentleman had convinced himself he’d never desire any such thing at all.

“Gyles, stop woolgathering.”

He focused, and quickly came to his feet as Henni and Ester, along with the other ladies, rose.

Henni grinned. She patted his arm as she turned away. “Don’t dally so long over the port this time. I have an answer to your question.”

The only question Gyles could recall was his wish to know Henni’s opinion of Franni. That wasn’t incentive enough to make him cut short his time in the comfortable company of Charles and Horace and rush to the drawing room, where he would once gain be exposed to Franni’s disturbing presence.

No one else seemed to find her disturbing-odd and awkward, yes, but not unsettling.

After forty minutes, he drained his glass and bowed to the inevitable.

From the drawing room’s threshold, he scanned the assembled ladies and located Francesca talking to Henni by the hearth. Charles and Horace ambled over to join Lady Elizabeth and Ester who were sitting on the chaise.

Franni was in an armchair beside Ester; Gyles felt her pale blue gaze as he strolled to Francesca’s side but gave no sign he was aware of her.

“Well! There you are!” Henni turned to Francesca. “You’ll have to take him in hand, my dear-that was far too long over the port for just a family gathering.” Henni shook her head disapprovingly. “We can’t have him developing bad habits.” She patted Francesca’s hand and moved to join those about the chaise.

Gyles watched her go, then met Francesca’s emerald eyes. “Do you intend taking me in hand, madam?”

She held his gaze, then her lips curved. Her lashes fell as she leaned closer, her voice lowering to the smoky, sultry sound that shot heat straight to his loins. “I take you in hand every night, my lord.” She looked into his eyes, then arched a brow. “But perhaps, tonight, you should remind me. I wouldn’t want you developing bad habits.”

His fingers had found hers, stroking across her palm. He raised her hand to his lips. “Rest assured I’ll remind you. There’s a habit or two you might like to try.”

Her brows rose in artful consideration, then she turned as Horace joined them. Gyles learned it was Horace who’d told Francesca where the urns and troughs from the forecourt had been hidden. Watching her charm his uncle, he had to admire her skill-Horace was not at all susceptible, yet he was very willing to extend himself for Francesca.

The action of glancing about the room, scanning his guests, was purely reflexive. Everyone was chatting, all except Franni. Gyles’s gaze stopped on her; he’d expected her to be bored, possibly frowning. Instead…

She was smug, there was no other word for it. She was all but hugging herself with smirking satisfaction. Her gaze was on him and Francesca, but she wasn’t really seeing-she hadn’t realized he was watching her. Her lips were curved in a peculiar, distant smile. Her whole expression spoke of faraway thoughts and pleasurable imaginings.

Gyles stepped closer to Francesca. Franni’s smugness increased. She was, very definitely, watching them.

Frances Rawlings was an exceedingly strange woman.

Horace turned to Gyles. “How’s the bridge going?”

Francesca listened to Gyles’s reply, then squeezed his fingers, slid her hand free, and strolled over to Franni.

“Are you all right?” With a swish of silk skirts, she sat on the arm of Franni’s chair.

“Yes!” Franni sat back, smiling. “I’ve had a lovely visit. I’m sure we’ll come more often, now.”

Francesa smiled back. She turned the conversation to Rawlings Hall, avoiding all mention of Bath.

Charles and Ester joined them; Francesca stood so they could speak more easily. Then Ester sat on the chair arm the better to talk to Franni. Charles laid a hand on Francesca’s arm. She turned to him.

“My dear, it’s been such an enjoyable stay. I have to say it’s made me feel thoroughly vindicated in urging you to accept Chillingworth’s offer. Seeing you so settled has set my mind at rest.”

Francesca smiled. “I’m happy, and very glad you came and got to know Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace-we’re all related, after all.”

“Indeed. It’s a pity we’re so out of touch.”

Francesca said nothing of her plans, her familial aims. Time enough when she’d set them in train. But she was sincerely happy and relieved by how well the visit had gone. It was, in a way, the first feather in her social cap.

Ester stood, and the conversation veered to their journey the next day. Franni made a querulous comment over the detour to Bath; Charles sat on the end of the chaise to reassure her.

Ester raised a brow at Francesca, then murmured, “I do hope she won’t refuse to drink the waters when we get there.”

“Do they really help her?”

Ester regarded Franni, then quietly said, “Franni’s very like her mother… as you know, Elise died. We can’t be sure, yet, but Charles lives in hope.”

Before Francesca could frame her next question, Ester said, “I haven’t yet told Charles about Franni’s gentleman. I will once we reach home. No need to worry before that. But I did speak with Franni, and she told me he exists, but he’s definitely not Chillingworth.” Ester met Francesca’s eyes. “That must have been so unsettling for you-I’m glad we’ve sorted that much out.”

Francesca nodded. “You’ll write and let me know…”

“Of course.” Ester looked again at Franni, at Charles leaning close, speaking slowly and evenly. “She has improved, you know.” After another moment, she softly said, “Who can say? Perhaps the cloud will pass.”

The tone of Ester’s voice, vulnerability mixed with sadness, made Francesca swallow her questions.

At the other end of the chaise, Gyles drew Henni aside. “Now, cut line. What answer do you have for me.”

Henni glanced to where Franni sat slumped in the armchair, Charles hovering over her. “She’s odd.”

“I know,” Gyles replied pointedly.

“I’d be tempted to say she’s softheaded, or to use a vulgar but appropriate term, dicked in the nob, yet that’s not quite it. She’s perfectly lucid if a little simple, yet, after talking to her for a while, you look into those eyes and wonder if she’s truly there, and who it is you’ve been talking to.”

“She seems… innocuous enough.”

“Oh, entirely-not dangerous in any way. It’s more a case of not being at home.” Henni looked at Francesca. “There’s nothing like it on the Rawlings side-Frances must have got it from her mother, although Ester is as rational as you please.” Henni glanced at Gyles. “We’ve never been anything but hardheaded on our side of the family, and from all I ever heard of Francesca’s mother, she was a strong-willed woman-too strong-willed for old Francis Rawlings to cow. No need to think any of Frances’s traits will come into this arm of the family via Francesca.”

Gyles blinked. He looked at Francesca, now exchanging gossip with his mother. “That never occurred to me.” After a moment, his gaze still on Francesca, he murmured, “There’s no element of her behavior I wish to change.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Henni grin. She patted his arm and gruffly said, “Horace keeps on about you being a lucky dog-for what it’s worth, I agree with him.”

Gyles looked down at her. “Thank you for your opinion.”

Henni opened her eyes at him. “Which one?”

Gyles smiled. He stepped forward, drawing Henni with him, returning to the general conversations. He moved to Charles’s side, to share a few companionable words, ignoring Franni’s wide gaze.

They were leaving tomorrow morning; for Francesca’s sake, he would bear with Franni’s oddity for one last hour.